Arcadia, the Ionian Sea Don't do it for me. Tumbling wastrel Rome Is my spiritual home. Harps and heroes, high-walled Troy I've tried to enjoy, But find, to my mind, That Martial's the kind Of poet I like best— A tousle haired pest At table, tracing love notes In wine for a girl that dotes On a dumpy, balding senator, The gouty inheritor Of large Campanian estates, And waiting stricken At night, while wind caresses The garden's cypresses, For a look at the window Or an oil lamp's luring glow. This little song is for him. Perhaps, in some dim Forgotten region under or over the earth, He's listening.
Ha great initial couplet; I was not expecting that
Subsequent lines evoke v nice sense of fragrant Italian night maybe in low hills by Capua
Columba has one of those eyes that sees all the way around a thing.